Once More Unto the Beach
Every summer I try to spend at least one day at Popham Beach on the Maine Coast. I do this for two reasons: one, I get to spend the rest of the summer peeling myself like an onion, which helps to pass the time on lonely nights. I suppose it should have occurred to me by now that the nights might be less lonely if I did not look so much like a leprous lobster, but then again you can't really do anything about your genes.
Secondly, I go to confound the gods. I figure that by subjecting myself to the agonies of a day at the beach on a regular basis as if I actually enjoyed it, I might convince whatever superior beings are looking on that there is no sense in trying to make my life difficult. Anyone willing to fry himself alive once a year is likely not to be perturbed when his transmission locks in rush hour traffic, a favorite prank of the gods.
Apparently this idea has occurred to a great many people, as it is always crowded at the beach. I hope it is working better for them, as the gods seem to be skeptical about the sincerity of my delight in beachgoing. My friends seem skeptical of my sanity, but that is nothing new.
There is not a lot to do at the beach if you are opposed to swimming in water colder than a penguin's patootie. I always go in anyway, for the benefit of the gods, until I can no longer feel my feet. Then there is nothing left to do but build sandcastles and watch the girls go by.
It was the latter habit that first got me interested in sand sculpture. As you probably know, the prettiest girls are always accompanied by guys who, in nursery school, were voted most likely to be mistaken for a panel truck, and who have only gotten bigger since then. After several such gentlemen showed me how to dig a furrow with my nose, I realized what a great pastime castle-building was and so much less expensive in terms of medical bills, if you remember to keep your eyes on your work.
As it turns out, this new hobby of mine fits in nicely with my plan to baffle the deities, because there has never been a greater exercise in futility (except perhaps Middle East Peace negotiations, also known as the "We're really serious this time," conference). Not only do you have to contend with the infamous impermanence inherent in the medium (it was a devastating wind storm after three months of painstaking work that drove Michelangelo to make the switch to marble when he sculpted his David for the second time), but there are always assorted future felons, commonly known as children, running about.
They consider it their sworn duty to trample into oblivion any unguarded attempt at artistic expression. When they grow up and become congressmen they will shift their focus from sandcastles to video games and music cd's.
Nevertheless, I feel compelled to build sandcastles which usually end up looking a lot like the ruins of an Aztec pyramid, only in worse shape. I find it prolongs the life of my castle if I explain in great detail certain Aztec rituals to passing children and offer to demonstrate them, should anyone set foot upon my pyramid.
As the sun sets, I join the weary throng heading for the parking lot, only to discover my car won't start. My mechanic told me later that my transmission was stripped. Yes, the gears of the gods grind slowly, but they sure as heck do grind exceedingly fine.
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